Kaerigake, On the Way Home
by Kisnau
Summary: Modern-day reincarnation fic. Cover art by me. The year is 2014, and Himura Battousai's name has been long buried in the depths of history. 28-year-old shelf-stocker Kennan isn't him, although he can't explain his recurring dreams about blood and swords. But his idyllic life means nothing to a kendo instructor who wants to see just how far he has to push to revive the Hitokiri.
1. Those who know, know it very well

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events taking place in "Rurouni Kenshin" by Nobuhiro Watsuki. Please don't sue me. I receive no money from this fanwork, only a writer's creative satisfaction. Also, reviews are always welcomed, read and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: Kaerigake, "On the Way Home"

Chapter 1: 知る人ぞ知る _Shiru Hito zo Shiru_ "Those who know, know it very well."

Word Count: 1,170

[Total Word Count: 1,170]

Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin

Character(s): Those souls who were once Himura Kenshin, Kamiya Kaoru, Takani Megumi, Myoujin Yahiko, Sanjou Tsubame, Sagara Sanosuke, Yukishiro Tomoe and Yukishiro Enishi.

Warning(s): Character death and reincarnation, bloody memories, nightmares, melancholy, violence

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post date: Sunday, August 24, 2014 ・平成二十六年八月二十四日・日曜日

: : : : : : :

There was a person, very much like many other people, who lived more than one life.

This was not in the figurative sense, this was not in the medical or psychological sense.

This person was always surrounded by the people they loved.

: : :

(Ava, Warren and Grace)

In one life, he had two sisters who constantly argued over him. The younger one liked sports and was a bit of a tomboy, while the older one had always proclaimed she was going to be a doctor. They vied for his attention, pulling him one way or the other, but he did not have the heart to deny them anything. Besides, deep down they all really loved each other.

His younger sister died in a tragic construction accident; his older sister by suicide.

He lived well into old age, reflecting to anyone who would listen how much he missed them.

: : :

(Eric, Melody and Steven)

In another, he had a distant cousin ten years younger than him move in with him and his quiet mother. She was reserved, gentle, and never raised her voice. The cousin had grown up looking up to him, and he did his best to provide guidance and a good example, even when his dear mother died when he was barely out of high school. He gave everything to ensure the younger boy wouldn't lack for anything; kindness, support, the necessities. His cousin – more a brother, by now, really – graduated high school with a full sports scholarship to a prestigious university. Always proud of him, he was taken aback when his young cousin misjudged how much he had drunk after going out partying with his college friends, and ran over him in the driveway.

His cousin never forgave himself, and became an advocate for responsible drinking.

: : :

(Sonya and Nolan)

In yet another, she found herself in an arranged marriage with a spirited young man who wanted nothing to do with settling down. Still, she was fond of him, and over the years they grew quite companionable, even accepting their situation without complaint. She took his rough nature well, was an excellent cook and always kept the house tidy. He was brash and wont to pick fights, and disagreed vehemently with her political views. Still, for all her domesticity she was not a wilting flower, and never hesitated to tear him down – or guide him, really – when she thought he was in the wrong.

After twenty years of marriage and two young daughters, these two were among multiple unfortunate victims in a plane crash. Their girls went to live with her father, a practicing judo instructor.

: : :

(Tam, Iris and Ordell)

She had always been fond of girls, but this one was special. They were both gentle souls, although hers had always been impulsively idealistic while the other girl's was soft and yielding. Still, they found solace in one another. There had never been a spark of passion – no, there was no need of it. They gave to each other and took in the same breath, always composed, always steady, always forgiving. Her girl's cousin, however, was obsessively protective of his cousin, and always glared darkly when he came to visit. He blamed her for his cousin's dabbling in the same sex. And in the end, he came to accept it, for they lived long and into their nineties together, despite society's disapproval. At the end, they died side by side in the hospital, and her cousin – with tears in his eyes – finally admitted that she had made his cousin happy, for all these years, despite their tepid relationship.

: : :

But in all these lives, this person knew something was missing. It wasn't something to be identified and conquered, wasn't a driving force in their life, was merely a passing fancy as this person's vision darkened at the end of another life, one of those last thoughts before the mind is lost to oblivion forever, and the cycle restarts.

_I wonder what he's doing, now._

: : :

Always, this person had dreams. Sometimes they were of one or more of these lives, although this person could never have known that. What seemed especially common were scenes from what looked to be pre-modern Japan – the pictures, clothing and writing suggested Asia, and when this person caught words like 'kimono' or 'ken' in their memories, that seemed an obvious conclusion. But this world was hazy, as though seen through glasses worn too often and not cleaned enough. The faces were unfamiliar, but the emotions related to them were not.

His sisters – in this life, they had not been, he could see that clearly. It made him smile as they vied for his attention as they always did.

His young cousin – always a boy, brash and bright and full of potential. And his mother, as a young girl his cousin's age, shy but not fearful. It made him happy to see he had a companion, and that he himself had not died too soon, in this life.

Her husband – they had fought, in his memories. He had beaten him in a battle with a fast sword against a large sword, a fact which brought endless amusement. Their two little daughters, too, appeared and he was glad he still knew them.

Her life partner – it had ended tragically. He remembered crying over her corpse in the death of snow, while her cousin watched on, shocked to the core with despair. He remembered fighting this boy much later, after he had grown up, and every moment of it had ached.

'He' remembered, because in these memories it was always 'he'. A name, repeated so many times, by so many voices, so many different loved ones clamoring for his attention, or safety, or protection.

_Kenshin… Kenshin! Kenshin? Kenshin –_

Kenshin. He wondered what it meant. It being 2014, he could probably have looked it up, if he wanted. Kenshin. There was another word that always went along with it. Himura? Definitely Japanese. But there was another. Some people in his dreams called him Kenshin, others Himura, and still others…

_Hitokiri wa hitokiri. Ne, Battousai?_

Battousai. He didn't have any connection to the name, but it still sent shivers up his spine. He didn't like that name, didn't want it applied to him. He didn't understand the first part of the memory – or most of the Japanese, really – but sometimes meanings leaked through. And he heard 'Battousai' enough times, directed at him, to know it was another name. Definitely Japanese, if he'd read up on their history correctly – nothing extensive, just a perusal so he'd know what he was dealing with. And there was always another person, someone he just couldn't place his finger on. It was a person he hadn't seen since that time in Japan, he thought – whenever that had been.

But, no, he remembered a date.

_Meiji juunen gogatsu juuyokka de gozaru yo._

_May 14, 1878._

That was over 136 years ago.


	2. These maladies affect all

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events taking place in "Rurouni Kenshin" by Nobuhiro Watsuki. Please don't sue me. I receive no money from this fanwork, only a writer's creative satisfaction. Also, reviews are always welcomed, read and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: Kaerigake: On the Way Home

Chapter 2: These maladies affect all; love, hate, curiosity and death.

Word Count: 2,176

[Total Word Count: 3,346]

Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin

Character(s): Those souls who were once Himura Kenshin, Kamiya Kaoru, Takani Megumi, Sagara Sanosuke, Myoujin Yahiko, Shinomori Aoshi, Makimachi Misao and Saitou Hajime.

Warning(s): Character death and reincarnation, bloody memories, nightmares, melancholy, violence

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post date: Sunday, August 24, 2014 ・平成二十六年八月二十四日・日曜日

: : : : : : :

It was still 2014, and Kennan was still working in the small supermarket in the heart of a small, unknown town. He didn't know how long he had been here (years, of course), but he always stocked the fresh fruits and vegetables when they came in, and always felt satisfied doing it. Sometimes a customer would ask him where they could find something, and he would go out of his way to lead them there.

He didn't have many friends, but those he might call as such could be found in the store where he worked. Sancho, the butcher, always went on about tenderizing the meat before selling it. (Kennan really just thought he liked to punch the carcasses hanging in the back freezer when no one was looking.) It was a small store, and there were a few cashiers, but his favorite by far was Kama. She was always bright-eyed and spirited, always giving a smile as people checked out. She didn't get along well with Tani, the pharmacist, who always seemed to want to flirt with Kennan; sometimes it seemed she did so just to rile Kama up. The two women vied for his attentions almost daily in petty little squabbles, and it made him appreciate the manager all the more. Morey was quiet and kept to himself, and his little sister Makena had endless energy. Thankfully, she had no interest in Kennan, and so he was spared ending up in a love rectangle rather than a triangle. Sancho just laughed at him whenever the girls started at it and said Kennan got this look on his face like he just didn't know what to do to calm them down. Makena and Jinn were stockers, like him. By contrast, while Makena left him largely alone (in favor of bothering Morey), Jinn seemed to follow in Kennan's footsteps everywhere. Early on, he had saved the boy from some falling cans – good reflexes, who knew? – and Jinn had seemed to latch onto him like a mentor. Kennan patiently bore it and did his best, but he really didn't know what a twenty-something shelf-stocker could teach a young adolescent about life. (Surely, if he'd figured it out, he wouldn't be stocking shelves at this point in his life!)

Still, Kennan couldn't be bitter about it. It was nice, this life; comfortable. The people around him were warm and familiar, and every now and then the local doctor came in to buy groceries, always showing pictures and talking about his two young daughters – twins – as though they were the light of the earth. It was a small store, in a small town, and everyone knew each other. It was very different from the big city he had come from. He hadn't talked to his uncle in years. Kennan wondered how he was doing, and if he was still selling 'modern art' to 'pay the bills' (not that any of it sold, but his uncle was rich and it was really more of a whimsical pastime than a livelihood).

His attention was brought back to the present by the telltale smell of smoke behind him. Kennan blinked, and turned in alarm, only to relax slightly when he saw it was only a patron perusing the shelves, cigarette in his hand. Upon closer inspection, it was definitely not an e-cigarette, so Kennan felt it his duty to approach the man politely, and address him.

"Excuse me, sir, but we do not allow smoking in the store." Grey eyes fell on him from a higher height, scrutinizing, but Kennan kept his smile. "Please extinguish it or I am afraid I will have to ask you to leave." There were a number of tones those words could have taken, but from Kennan they always and only sounded like friendly advice. The man narrowed his eyes at him, but Kennan held steady, his smile firm.

Then the man smirked, eying him up and down.

"To think, I would have found _you_ like this." He sounded amused, but condescending, and didn't seem at all inclined to put out his cigarette. Kennan's expression started to feel strained.

"Sir – " The man waved him off, turning away.

"That's all, for now." Belatedly, Kennan realized the man hadn't actually picked out anything to buy. He watched him go, but something in the back of his mind stirred.

_Your life's been spared, for now._

_And so has, yours._

He stumbled at the sudden sensory memory –

_Hard steel, sharp blades, running keep moving dodge the next thrust read his movements attack from above re-sheathe the sword I need my best to beat him why didn't it cut it should have drawn blood –_

… And Kennan caught himself against the shelves, breathing hard –

_ Too much strength concentrate on breathing the next strike I'll get him –_

He shook his head against the influx of input, putting a hand to his forehead but in the next instant it was gone. Kennan's knees felt shaky, and he heard his name and turned slightly, trying to compose himself. It was Sancho, butcher's apron tied around his waist, eyes full of concern –

_Our voices can't reach them, anymore. They're not fighting in Tokyo, in the Meiji Era –_

Unable to take the strain, Kennan's vision faded as Sancho's arms caught him, the last glimpse of light before darkness swallowed it, words echoing in his ears –

_They're fighting in Kyoto, during the Revolution._

: : :

Kennan awoke to the sounds of whispering. He kept his eyes closed for another moment, not wanting to move. His head ached. The images were already fading, but one wouldn't go away –

A man. A Japanese man, tall, with a Japanese sword held in his left hand – how odd a way to fight – and coming at him with unbridled power, seeking his life. The thought alone made him shiver, and he shook his head. He had always had dreams about men fighting him with swords, but this one was new. Kennan couldn't ever remember confronting someone who used a left-handed attack like the Shinsengumi.

As soon as the Japanese word formed – flawlessly foreign – in his mind, Kennan felt his head split in two, and clutched at it, eyes clenching shut as he tried to deal with the pain. Luckily, none of his friends came to check on him in this moment of intense agony, and it had mostly ebbed away a few minutes later when Makena poked her head in, smiling brightly.

"Hey, Ken! Feeling any better? You've got Kama and Jinn worried sick, you know, collapsing like that. What was up with that, anyway? Not get enough sleep last night?" Each question was fired in rapid succession, and it took Kennan's addled mind a moment to catch up. When it did, he offered her a weak smile.

"Ah, yes." He wasn't about to admit the real reason he'd fainted; it sounded strange even to _himself_, and no doubt the others wouldn't take it well. It wouldn't do to worry them. Makena eyeballed him for a moment, clearly suspicious, and Kennan just blinked at her. She sighed, dramatically, turning around to walk out.

"Well, Morey says you should get back to work. There're still four hours left in your shift, and Jinn's been doing stocking for the both of you until now, but he's too short to reach the taller shelves." She snickered meanly to herself and Kennan smiled, shaking his head as she left.

He dealt with Kama's fussing, and waved off Sancho's concerned glances as he passed the butchery while stocking the shelves Jinn couldn't reach. Tani gave him an assessing look, but he just gave her a reassuring smile in return. Really, it was nothing. His body felt fine, it was his mind that was a mess. Kennan went home when his shift was over, and slept badly. He dreamed he was being chased by wolves in a red-walled city, with only a single sword to defend himself. Normally Kennan wasn't afraid, in these dreams, if he had a sword in his hand, but one wolf in particular with glittering grey eyes lunged at him with no regard for the sword, gaping maw open wide with sharp fangs ready to tear him to shreds.

He woke up, abruptly, and couldn't relax enough to lie back down, again. Kennan tried numerous positions to get comfortable, but in the end the only one that worked was on the floor. He was leaning back against the bed, fingers clutching tightly to the covers half-dragged off it and balled into his left hand, right foot on the floor, knee bent, left knee resting on its side on the floor, his head dropped forward, when he finally fell asleep.

In the morning, Kennan woke to a crick in his neck and a cold sweat. A hot shower got rid of both, and he pushed the dreams to the back of his mind, losing himself in the preparation to head out for work.

The smoker didn't return that day, or the day after. It stretched into a week, and Kennan had nearly forgotten the whole affair – although his new dreams about bloodthirsty wolves hadn't let up – until after he came back from his lunch break. Kama was waiting impatiently for him, hands on her hips, and Kennan blinked at her as she frowned at him, holding out a piece of paper.

"A man was asking around about you. Mentioned your birthmark, and everything." Kennan resisted the urge to bring his hand to his left cheek. Inexplicably, he had a near-perfect 'x' mark there. It had been with him in the mirror as far back as he could remember. It was hardly large – maybe the size of a silver dollar – and right in the center of his cheek, still noticeable as a dark brown mark on his face despite the way he wore his hair. Still, it was a feature that most people stared at when first meeting him, and set him apart.

Realizing he had been musing and that Kama was staring at him, Kennan smiled, reaching a hand for the note.

"Thank you, Miss Kama." She was hesitant to let go of the note, though, and he looked up at her, curious. She was biting her lip, face concerned, eyes earnest.

"Kennan, you know you can rely on us for anything, right?" He blinked at her, and, noticeably flustered, she continued on. "I just! Don't get into anything weird, OK? This guy gave me a bad vibe." She was watching him worriedly, and when it clicked in his mind Kennan smiled warmly at her, finally succeeding in taking the note and tucking it in his back pocket.

"Don't worry, I won't. Thank you for your concern." She smiled shyly at him, and he nodded his head politely at her before striding off to go stock the shelves. The note in his back pocket burned at his curiosity throughout his entire shift, but Kennan resisted the urge to look at it. If it was from the man who had provoked that fainting spell a week ago, he couldn't afford to have another episode and miss more work. Morey was a good supervisor, but naturally unable to pay him for time he wasn't working. The last episode had had to count as his lunch break, although Morey let him take one later, anyway, without clocking out. Fair was fair, but he couldn't do that to him again.

Once he was off, Kennan still waited until he was safely at home, lying down in bed (just in case it provoked another hallucination) to unfold it. It was half the size of a regular piece of paper, folded like a fan and then folded in half. His eyes slid over what looked to be a sentence full of unfamiliar characters – not English – he didn't understand, and then there was something else beneath them in a neat scrawl.

_If you've forgotten your Japanese, come to the Sekiguchi Martial Arts Academy once your shift is over. It's mine; let yourself in, but don't disturb the class._

Japanese? He had never known Japanese, not even understanding the jibberish that was spoken Japanese in his dreams, only getting a flash of meaning from context, now and then. There was an address listed, and Kennan almost wrote the letter off as a mistake, but more characters caught his eye at the bottom of the page. This specific combination brought a pronunciation to mind before Kennan could quite realize he was essentially _remembering _a Japanese word he had never read in his entire life.

抜刀斎

_Battousai._

He felt the usual chill run up his spine at the name. He'd never told_ anyone_ about that name.

However, it was too late to go, tonight. Kennan would think about it before making any real decisions over accepting the invitation.

In the end, the chance to get some answers about his dreams made him curious enough to go.

In retrospect, it was probably the worst thing he could have done to his quiet life.


	3. Fighting is a necessary evil

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events taking place in "Rurouni Kenshin" by Nobuhiro Watsuki. Please don't sue me. I receive no money from this fanwork, only a writer's creative satisfaction. Also, reviews are always welcomed, read and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: Kaerigake, On the Way Home

Chapter 3: Fighting is a necessary evil when talking alone will not negotiate peace.

Word Count: 2,904

[Total Word Count: 6,250]

Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin

Character(s): Those souls who were once Himura Kenshin and Saitou Hajime.

Warning(s): Character death and reincarnation, bloody memories, nightmares, melancholy, violence

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post date: Sunday, August 24, 2014 ・平成二十六年八月二十四日・日曜日

: : : : : : :

The Sekiguchi Martial Arts Academy wasn't a large school. It was one of those storefront locations that had been turned into a martial arts studio, complete with wall-sized windows all along the sides, to let light in. Kennan hesitated as he saw a class going on, but remembered the letter and stepped inside anyway. No one paid him a glance, for which he was thankful, and he moved over to the side to sit on the long bench next to those large windows, no doubt meant for the parents of those enrolled in the children's classes. He watched the lesson, feeling oddly at peace with the shouted Japanese words and ceremonial positions as the class moved as one in response to their instructor. He didn't recognize the man up front, and thought to himself that perhaps he had been a shade too paranoid in assuming the smoker from before had been the one to leave that letter with Kama. There had been a lot of people in the grocery store since last week, and any of them could have noticed his birthmark. Besides, the man hadn't exactly struck him as Japanese, or able to speak it, so really, Kennan was attributing too much to mere coincidences.

The class went on for an hour, and Kennan's calm at the atmosphere evaporated when the students filed past him, some casting him glances, eyes no doubt drawn to his birthmark. He felt awkward and out-of-place, and tried to seem invisible as the instructor came up to him with a smile on his face.

"Interested in a class?" He was a kind man – Kennan could tell by the warmth in his eyes – so he just smiled back, shaking his head.

"No. I was invited…" He trailed off as the man blinked at him.

"Oh, so _you're_ the one Sensei had mentioned might drop by? His class was yesterday, and he's not here today. You a new friend of his?" Kennan felt a niggling surge of discomfort at this information. So the note hadn't come from this man, after all. He felt his paranoia rise again, and smiled, suddenly quite ready to leave. He shouldn't have come, at all.

"Ah… no." He shook his head, and tried to dart around the man in his white kendo uniform. "Simply a misunderstanding. Thank you for your time, it was quite an enlightening class, but I believe I shall be going, now – "

"In such a hurry to leave my dojo, Battousai?" That name made him freeze, again – he'd never heard it spoken aloud, so easily and so threateningly, like the men in his dreams did. He had a flash of a vision of a wolf in his mind before turning his head towards the voice. The instructor from today's class supplied a verbal reaction in the silence of Kennan's shock, sounding surprised.

"Sensei! I didn't expect to see you, today. Forget something?"

It was the smoker from last week. Only now he was dressed all in black, in a kendo uniform, a wooden sword held easily at his side in his left hand as though he was accustomed to it always being there. He was watching Kennan attentively, and Kennan felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise under the short cut of his hair. The smoker slowly smirked, never taking his eyes off Kennan even as he answered the instructor.

"I have a special private lesson, today." The smoker commented glibly, grey eyes pinning Kennan where he stood. Something old in him bristled at the intimidation, but it was hazed and ill-used, and further Kennan didn't know what to do with it, so he just stayed frozen. The instructor looked back at him, incredulously. Kennan barely heard their conversation, trying to make sense of the images suddenly springing into his head.

"_Private_ lesson? You still do those?" The smoker strode towards them, and it was only now that Kennan noticed he had a wooden sword in his other hand, as well. It had been hidden behind his back when he first appeared.

"This is a special case." The smoker said smoothly, eyes never having moved from Kennan since the poor startled man had first turned to look at him. The instructor laughed, clapping Kennan on the back and startling him out of their stare-down, making him look up at that friendly grin in surprise.

"Oh, geez. Good luck, kid, he's a demon to first-timers."

_Oni._

Kennan shook his head to clear the unexpected comment – it sounded like Makena's voice, oddly enough – from his mind, smiling weakly up at him.

"Oh, no, I don't really – " But the instructor had already turned his back to head for the door, bending down to gather his things. Kennan's distraction cost him, and he was jolted out of it by a sword smacking him in the arm before falling to the padded floor. He jumped in surprise, sending an incredulous look at the smoker, who just looked bored.

"I expected you to catch it." He offered by way of explanation, seeming unmoved by Kennan's sudden glare in his direction.

"I've never held a sword in my life!" Kennan shot back angrily, rubbing at his throbbing arm. The smoker assessed him, expression unreadable.

"More's the pity." They stayed that way for a moment, Kennan glaring and the smoker's expression never changing. "Well, pick it up." He sounded vaguely irritated, as though he were stating the obvious. Kennan frowned at him.

"I don't know the first thing about swordsmanship, and I don't intend to start now." He shook his head. "I don't like fighting." The smoker watched him, unimpressed.

"Everybody has to fight, sometime. Isn't it better to be prepared?"

"That's what the police are for." Kennan countered, feeling as though he had had this conversation before. He shook his head, trying to clear it from unwanted images that, really, had nothing to do with him. When he looked back at the smoker, the man was smirking.

"Funny to hear _you_ say that. What if someone in front of you were attacked, then?" Kennan narrowed his eyes, having the feeling the smoker was trying to bait him.

"I would call the police, like any normal person." In the back of his mind, he knew that was a lie; he'd do that, but he'd also step in, of course he would. If he could do anything to help, he wouldn't let the attacker get away. The smoker smirked at him, again, as though able to tell he was lying by omission.

"What about if it were that girl? Kama?" Kennan tensed, that nonchalant tone nonetheless phrased like a threat. He glared at the smoker, again, but this time it was icy; warning.

"What about her?" He said, guardedly, and the smoker observed him in visible amusement before turning to walk to the center of the padded floor.

"Only a thought, Battousai, nothing more." Kennan flinched at the name, again, but resisted the urge to take a step forward as the smoker turned around, wooden sword still held loosely at his left.

"Why do you call me that? I've never met you, before." The smoker tilted his head, grey eyes calculating as he watched him for a moment.

"Not here." He said quietly. "But you know the name, don't you? Why else would you have come?" Kennan froze briefly at the truth – was he _that_ transparent? – and the smoker took the chance to nod at the wooden sword lying by his feet. "Spar with me." Kennan remembered himself, at this, and stood firm.

"No. I don't fight for fun." The smoker lilted another smirk at him, challenging.

"This isn't for fun. This is for information. Don't you want to know why I could tell you a name you've only heard in your dreams?" Kennan felt his eyes widen, and that smirk on the other man's face grew wider.

"How do you – "

"I have them, too." The smoker said, seriously, grey eyes on Kennan's blue ones. There was a sense of vertigo when they met, this time, a sense of time tilting away, a fogged recollection of a sword stance – and then Kennan realized it wasn't just a recollection. The smoker had crouched into that same left-handed stance Kennan recalled from his dreams, wooden sword held parallel to the ground.

The left-handed thrust of the Shinsengumi, Hirazuki. Kennan's head ached at the unwelcome information. But, no, that was wrong. The name of this attack was –

"Gatotsu." The smoker said in perfect Japanese, plucking the word from Kennan's mind, not having taken his eyes off him. "Do you remember this stance, Battousai?" There was something in his mind that said he shouldn't pick up the wooden sword, something that indicated it would be a bad idea, but…

Gatotsu was dangerous. Shouldn't he be ready to defend himself, if need be? Still not intent on fighting, at this point Kennan slowly bent down to pick up the wooden sword, holding it loosely by the blade to show his unwillingness to fight.

"I don't want to fight you. Who are you, anyway?" The smoker only smirked at him.

"You'll have to fight me if you want to know. I don't expect you to _win –_" And, for some reason, that made Kennan's eyes narrow in affront, although of course he would lose to a teacher of swordsmanship… but even still, the sure confidence _irritated_. " – but at least put up a good fight." Kennan let the silence hang between them for a moment, unmoving, before inquiring softly.

"Why?" The smoker watched him, grey eyes intent, face stoic, body yet poised in its stance.

"I want to see what you remember." It was a cryptic response, and Kennan realized that this was the moment he should drop the wooden sword in his hand, turn around, and walk out. The smoker, he knew, wouldn't attack him unarmed and with his back turned. A stranger's curiosity had nothing to do with him, and if he left now it would be a clear rejection, and the man would have no reason to seek him out, again.

This is what he _should_ do.

… And yet.

And _yet_, his dreams of swords and blood and fighting had plagued him for as long as he could remember. The man before him looked nothing like the wolf from his dreams, but the sense of danger was the same. This was a man Kennan should stay away from. A man who would kill him if he held back. A man –

Kennan froze, at the line his thoughts were taking, and noticed belatedly that his grip on the wooden blade in his hand had tightened to white-knuckled. The smoker was still watching him impassively; waiting for his response, watching with infinite patience for Kennan to sink into a stance, preparing to meet him. Kennan's fingers slowly crawled towards the hilt as his feet moved without his mind's express permission, walking him over to stand directly across from the smoker and his raised sword stance; a perfect line between them.

The smoker watched him humorlessly. Kennan felt a rush of deja-vu, but fought it off. He raised the sword in his right hand, so the tip was only a few inches from the floor. It felt natural. Inanely, he was bothered by the lack of a sheath, but he had fought without one, before. This time would be no different.

Kennan didn't feel dizzy, at the thought that was not his own. He was too focused on waiting for the smoker to make his move. Their eyes met, and time stretched for an undefinable time.

Some trigger set it off; perhaps it was the streetlights coming on, outside. The smoker lunged at him with a guttural cry, his wooden sword thrust out in front of him, aimed directly for Kennan's forehead. Startled, Kennan's first response was clumsy as he brought his own sword up to bat the attempt away from his face, the clack of their swords against each other loud in the silence of the dojo as he dodged to the left – but that was a mistake. A punch slammed into his right shoulder, hard, and he gasped at the pain, left hand shooting up to hold the hit area, casting an incredulous look at the smoker as he straightened out of the landing stance momentum had carried him into, glancing over his shoulder at Kennan.

His eyes gleamed.

"Is that all, Battousai?" Frustrated, Kennan didn't bother to correct him this time, fingers tightening on the hilt of the wooden sword in his right hand as he glared back at him. The smoker crouched back into that same left-handed stance, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he lunged again.

This time, Kennan dropped to the ground, out of the wooden sword's path, and darted to the smoker's left side, his own wooden sword smacking into the man's shins and making him fall. He heard a snarl, and for no other reason than intuition Kennan rolled to the side, feeling a sound of impact behind him before allowing the momentum to spring him to his feet. He looked behind him, turning as he did so. The end of the smoker's wooden sword was where Kennan had been, grey eyes narrowed with concentration as the man pushed himself up from the floor, without hesitation falling back into that same stance, once again.

This third time, Kennan felt his vision shift. An image of someone else in this stance, clad in blue and white, dropped unexpectedly over the reality of the man's black kendo uniform. As he lunged, it changed to that same picture of a man in a dark blue uniform doing the same, sword glinting in the dim lighting of the dojo as it sought his life.

The memory is what did him in, Kennan's eyes going wide as the _real_ lunge made contact, the tip of the wooden blade digging into his right shoulder and making him cry out in pain as it flung him backwards, colliding with a gasp against the dojo's wall before crumpling to the ground, the wooden sword's hilt falling limply from nerveless fingers. His shoulder throbbed, it would no doubt bruise, but it wouldn't be hard to recover from since Saitou hadn't used a real blade. Why was he fighting with a bokken, anyway, that wasn't like him –

Eyes hazed with pain and not quite realizing his thoughts were muddled, Kennan struggled to push himself up with his own sword, but a smooth, cool curve of wood against his neck made him freeze and look up. The smoker was gazing down at him with thinly-veiled disappointment, his wooden sword held against Kennan's neck.

"If this had been a real sword, or I had used my full power, that would have killed you." He stated this impassively, but all Kennan could see was the cold dismissiveness in his eyes. "You're less of a challenge now than you were after ten years wandering around Japan, spouting your foolish pacifist ideology." Kennan grit his teeth, for some reason annoyed at the comments, although he couldn't place the reason in or out of context. The smoker's eyes flared with irritation. "You are pathetic, Battousai. Have these past 136 years made you forget _everything_?"

"I'm not Battousai!" It was a loud exclamation, but one Kennan didn't regret as he glared up at the other man from the floor, not making to move despite the harmless blade at his throat, still clutching his throbbing shoulder. "My name is _Kennan_ and I don't even know you! Who are you, anyway? Why are you assaulting me? I've never done _anything_ to you and it's not my fault if you think I'm somebody I'm _not_! Why are you taking it out on _me?_ You really should get help for this, because I could _report_ you for stalking me at my workplace, involving my friends – " He was interrupted by the sharp bark of a laugh as the smoker knelt down to his level, fisting his left hand in Kennan's shirt and pulling him forward so their mutual glares could meet, sword-holding hand with its knuckles pressed against the padded floor.

"You're_ not_ Battousai? Then why come at all? You had to have recognized the kanji. How did you know to try and catch me off-guard by using a floor attack?" His face turned grim. "It wasn't the first time. Don't you remember the Kamiya dojo?" Memories stirred at the name; a wooden room at dusk, swords flashing. The smoker's voice dropped, further. "I remember _everything._ How many lives have you lived, Battousai, that have dulled your hitokiri spirit so much? You've grown complacent." Kennan gasped at the second familiarly unfamiliar Japanese word –_ hitokiri_ – and shut his eyes against a sudden headache, trying to fight it off. But the smoker's voice was insistent.

"You remembered my name, for a moment, didn't you? I saw it in your eyes." That deadly tone was ripping into his brain and making Kennan's mind swim with pain, half-remembered thoughts trickling through new cracks threatening to break it apart.

"I – I don't –" The smoker pressed a hand into his injured shoulder, pinning him to the dojo wall, making Kennan's dizziness explode with renewed pain as the man hissed lowly at him.

"What is my _name_, Battousai?"

Those words rang in his ears as Kennan passed out.


	4. It is difficult to deviate

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events taking place in "Rurouni Kenshin" by Nobuhiro Watsuki. Please don't sue me. I receive no money from this fanwork, only a writer's creative satisfaction. Also, reviews are always welcomed, read and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: Kaerigake: On the Way Home

Chapter 4: It is difficult to deviate from a worn path.

Word Count: 3,392

[Total Word Count: 9,642]

Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin

Character(s): Those souls who were once Himura Kenshin, Sagara Sanosuke, Saitou Hajime, Kamiya Kaoru and Takani Megumi. Also, Yukishiro Tomoe and Himura Kenshin.

Warning(s): Character death and reincarnation, bloody memories, nightmares, melancholy, violence, adult same-sex kissing, references to major spoilers for the Jinchuu arc of the manga

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post date: Sunday, September 14, 2014・平成二十六年九月十四日・日曜日

: : : : : : :

_ Tomoe was dead._

_ The hitokiri dragged his feet through the snow, carrying her body close to him. He didn't know how long he had sat there, cradling her and crying; every inch the fifteen-year-old man he was. Her death hadn't been instantaneous, but it had been quick – too quick for a proper goodbye. The chorus of 'why's in his head was deafening, even as his hearing returned. The forest was still and silent as ever, as he passed the various 'barriers' graves._

_ Swordsman's sense, hearing, sight, touch. They had all been stolen from him as he raced through the forest to find her. One shadow assassin after another, just like that night the bloody rain fell. And the hitokiri had thought he would be able to protect her happiness. Tomoe had died smiling, when she so rarely did – perhaps it had been his own happiness he was trying to protect. Tomoe's smile was a thing of beauty. It had made him happy when he saw it the first time, and now the second time was seared painfully into his memories; every time he thought of her smile he would think of her death._

_ As his senses came back to him, he wished they hadn't. His swordsman's sense returned once he exited the forest. Through the deep snow, the hitokiri slowly became aware of the sound the two of them made as they pushed through it. On the road, there was no one to witness the hitokiri carrying the corpse of his wife – he knew this, because he could see. His fingers were numb as they held her to him, the cold of the mountain granting him some respite from the now razor-sharp awareness he had of how truly dead she was in his arms. He had slain enough men to know, and no would-be-comforting hallucinations would allow him to forget that fact. The hitokiri dismissed them, as they were not the truth._

_ Once inside the house – their house – he gently laid her down, and cleaned the blood off. It was a scent he knew all too well, and it felt rank in the close air of their peaceful home. A scent that should have never come here, was not welcome here, and yet it had insidiously traipsed in, bathing the rooms in the chaos of Kyoto. There would be no escape. Barely thinking, he methodically undressed her and threw away the bloodstained kimono. Reverently, he redressed her in her clean, white sleeping one. He gently dotted her wrists and behind her ears with her perfume, then pulled up the futon they had shared – only one night – and folded her purple shawl neatly atop her chest, exactly as she had left it on the pillow beside him in lieu of herself, as she set out on her trek to the cabin._

_ A rain of blood, she had said. He had really made it rain blood._

_ The scent of white plum blossoms, and blood._

: : :

Kennan started awake into a sitting position, his heart racing. The scent of white plum blossoms lingered in his mind, giving him unpleasant reminders of the clarity of the dream he'd just had. Usually he just had flashes of understanding, scenes that played out fuzzily in his mind, but this one had been different. There was a woman, one he had loved, and he had cut through her and killed the man beyond. He hadn't seen her, and when he had, it had been too late. She lay dying in the snow, bleeding out from the fatal wound, painting the snow pink. Kennan bent over his knees and held the back of his head with his hands, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to get the scene out of his mind.

It wouldn't go away. He had killed her. Killed _her._ Just like so many men before –

His head exploded in agony and Kennan shuddered, falling on his side on the bed. In the back of his mind, he heard voices. They were muffled and he wasn't completely sure if they were hallucinations, or not. He was aware of the door opening, and glanced up despite his double vision. He saw a tall Japanese man, spiky brown hair held back by a red bandana across his forehead. Kennan didn't recognize him, but he knew him.

_Sano._ The name appeared, unbidden, and Kennan shook his head to try and get rid of the pain, but only succeeded in making it worse. The room tilted, and abruptly a pair of strong hands steadied his shoulders. He heard a sharp bark of a rebuke, fingers pressing into him with palpable worry. A low, calm tone responded and then Kennan was being hoisted up, a familiar voice hissing in his ear.

"Don't worry, I'll get you out of this freak's place, Kennan. Just work with me, here, a'ight?" He didn't understand half the words, but noted the urgency, and nodded vaguely as Sancho – not Sano, Sano wasn't a real person, it was just an image in his head – pulled one of his arms over his shoulders and helped him up. Kennan was struck by a sense of familiarity as he took the first step – hadn't they done this before? With…

"Shishio." He mumbled, mouth clumsy around the foreign word, but Sancho seemed to take it as nonsense and kept encouraging him to take another step. A curt, dismissive tone sliced through the air coolly.

"Shishio Makoto. Your predecessor, Battousai." Kennan flinched at he was called the name that was not his, curling slightly into Sancho's shoulder as his friend bristled.

"What's that, Chinese?" Kennan heard a scoff, but Sancho plowed on. "Listen, pal, I don't know what you did to him, but I'm takin' him back to _his_ house. You didn't drug him, did you?"

"It's Japanese." Just an edge of impatience, in that neutral, bored tone. "He merely collapsed in my school, and I thought it wise to contact one of his friends as I do not know where he lives." Kennan felt Sancho grind his back teeth together, before spitting out a response.

"_Your_ school? That hole-in-the-wall downstairs is _yours? _And since when does Kennan the pacifist study any kind of karate?" Kennan could tell Sancho wanted to go on, but he was cut calmly short.

"It is. And I would not expect a common butcher to understand anything more complex than chopping up meat. Kendo is quite beyond you." Sancho's hand tightened on Kennan's back, and he could tell his friend was trying to hold back his temper.

"Well, lucky for you we don't live in a warzone, so I guess I'll have to make due punching the daylights out of the beef carcasses for what you just said." He said, tightly.

"How you have all changed." It was a thinly-veiled insult, delivered in that same infuriating tone. Kennan couldn't bring himself to care past his headache, just slumped against his friend in silent entreaty. Sancho seemed to get the message, and readjusted him, stalking out. Kennan made his feet follow as best he could. There were no other words exchanged, and Sancho took him home in silence, helping Kennan into bed before going to crash on his couch and raid his refrigerator.

When Kennan woke up, it was two in the morning and Sancho was sprawled across his couch, covered in chips and a melting quart of ice cream sitting on the coffee table, TV playing some infomercial. Despite the long day he'd had, he smiled tiredly and began to pick up after his best friend, ending with a blanket tossed over the sleeping man in gratitude for looking after him and just generally being around if Kennan had had need of him.

It was not a common thing, to find friends that he could depend on.

And Sancho was always very dependable.

: : :

When he returned to work, Kama immediately fluttered over and began chastising him for his carelessness. Tani also poked her nose in, suggesting various herbal remedies they kept in stock. Being a pharmacist, she could only fill what prescriptions doctors had ordered, but that hadn't stopped her from researching natural medicines. It was a way she could use her knowledge to help those she cared about, without endangering the great amount of trust people put in her to do her job. Kennan waved them off, insisting it was nothing, and tried to ignore Makena and Jinn's questions as they stocked the shelves. But two instances of fainting in two weeks had Kama's fretting at its worst, and so when she surprised him by signing up to work for him over the weekend, Kennan found she wouldn't let him refuse it. The paperwork had all been done – Morey had apparently signed off on it all – and everyone was telling him to go home and rest. Not having much choice in the matter, Kennan did.

This was a few days after the incident at the smoker's kendo school – Kennan _still_ hadn't learned the man's name – and what was quite unwelcome as he rounded the corner to his apartment was the sight of that tall man with the piercing eyes, leaning against the wall beside his door, arms folded over his front and a cigarette in one hand. He stared at Kennan as Kennan approached warily, taking out his key to unlock the door. At this, the smoker finally spoke.

"I followed you when that idiot took you home." It was obvious, and the smoker was stating the obvious, and Kennan ignored it. He saw a thin smirk curl over the man's lips, from the corner of his eye. "Still denying your past, Battousai? I would have thought you'd gotten sick of it after that stint as a pacifistic rurouni."

Rurouni. _Wanderer._ Another Japanese word Kennan didn't know he knew. It was so unsettling. He turned to frown up at the taller man, key already having unlocked his door. The smoker watched him passively.

"What is your name?" Kennan settled on, at last, not looking away from their staredown. The smoker smirked down at him.

"You'll just have to remember it, Himura Battousai." His eyes glittered as he said this, but Kennan shook his head as he turned the knob and walked into his apartment, voice quiet.

"That's not my name." The smoker followed him in leisurely – it was just as well. Apparently they both had unanswered questions, so it would be best to get them over with so Kennan could move on with his life.

"Not in this life, no. But it was." The smoker surprised him by conceding even that much, and Kennan glanced up at him warily as the man passed. Their eyes didn't meet; the smoker was too occupied with looking around his apartment, just then. Kennan sighed and closed the door behind him, resigned to his unexpected guest.

"Would you like something to drink?" He asked mildly, ever a good host. He heard the smirk in the other man's voice as he answered.

"Still playing the domestic. I'll have some green tea, if you don't mind." That was strangely polite, but Kennan didn't let it put him off-guard. He returned to the living room a few minutes later with a pot of green tea and two cups. He set them on the coffee table; one in front of his guest, one for him, and the pot in the middle. Kennan leaned back in the chair perpendicular to the couch the smoker was sitting on, eying him seriously.

"What do you want from me." He stated quietly. The smoker held his tea atop his bent knees, back straight as he gazed back just as seriously.

"I want you to remember who you were." The smoker offered, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Why?" The smoker smirked thinly at him.

"Because you are not being true to yourself, like this; Hitokiri Battousai, a shelf-stocker? Your true self is an assassin. This cannot be changed with a few lives lived in idleness. Where is the man who was one of the four great Ishin Shishi swordsmen of the Bakumatsu? Where is the man who fought on equal terms with the captains of the Shinsengumi? Where is the man who – "

"He is not here." Kennan interrupted him firmly, eyes on the tea he was holding tightly between his fingers, knuckles white. Having seen so much blood in his dreams, he knew it couldn't have meant anything good, but for it to be _real_, for it to be _memories _– it was almost too preposterous to take seriously. How could this man know so much about him and yet nothing at all?

"Yes, that much is apparent." The raw disdain in that tone made Kennan startle, looking up into a pair of piercing grey eyes. "You are so much less than what you could have been." A disappointed click of the smoker's tongue, to that. "How easy would it have been to pick up a sword and remember what you always will be?" Kennan looked back down to his tea. His mouth felt dry, and he forced himself to take a sip. He remembered…

"I was born in 1986." He said, softly. "My parents weren't married. My mother left, and my father took care of me. He was in an accident at work, a few years later, and didn't survive. His brother took me in and raised me." He didn't mention that one childhood nightmare he kept having, over and over… A girl who reminded him of Kama, stabbed through the heart with a sword, pinned to a wall, Kennan's birthmark freshly carved into her left cheek. A regular sword, not a Japanese one – or at least it looked like it. He had woken up screaming from it so many times in his life, his uncle had taken to soundproofing his room.

"You remembered something, didn't you." The statement cut into his thoughts, and Kennan flinched away from that voice. It kept on. "Tell me. Was it Tomoe's death? Or the one Enishi staged?" The second name meant nothing to him, but Tomoe reminded him of that too-detailed dream he'd had, recently.

Tomoe: the woman he had killed; the woman he had loved.

"No." Kennan lied. "I don't remember anything." He heard a scoff, and the slight 'chink' of the smoker's teacup being placed on the coffee table between them.

"You always were a bad liar. It was the tanuki girl, wasn't it? And from that, you made some half-stupid conclusion to never pick up a sword. Didn't you." It wasn't a question, and Kennan was ashamed to admit he was right. The people in his dreams were always in trouble because of him; his sword had caused so much pain. Intrinsically, he had known this, and the smoker had only confirmed it with his comments about Kennan having been an assassin in that former life.

"I'm not the assassin, anymore." He said very softly, eyes on his tea. "I haven't been since then. When did you say it was? 130 years ago? That isn't me." Kennan heard a scoff, and the creak of the couch as the smoker leaned forward. He didn't resist as the man lifted his chin so their eyes could meet.

"136 years ago. After the Bakumatsu and in Meiji-Era Japan." The smoker was watching him, intently, for some sort of response, but Kennan just felt tired and sad. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"No matter what you remember, I don't. I don't want that life. It's not mine. Mine is enough, for me. I don't need to be a famous killer." He said quietly, trying to pull out of the smoker's grip. But it only tightened, and the smoker dragged him forward by an abruptly hard hold on his jaw, hissing at him.

"You still want to run away, Battousai? I remember _everything_. You can't hide your past." Grey eyes stabbed at him, furious and cold. "You will _not_ run away from me. Not this time." Kennan watched him quietly, and felt a question tugging at the back of his mind.

"Why is this so important to you?" Immediately, the smoker's face changed to something unreadable.

"It's not important to me." It was immediately dismissed, but something was off. Kennan pressed on.

"If it wasn't important, what else have you been doing for these past 136 years?" The smoker fell silent and pulled back from his lean, letting Kennan go. He took a drag of his cigarette, not looking at him, and Kennan watched him shrewdly while rubbing at the spot where the smoker's fingers had pressed into his jaw. When the silence stretched for too long, Kennan broke it, gently.

"You say you remember everything. What about these past 136 years? Haven't you lived through them? Haven't you been happy? Why fixate on a life that was nothing but misery?" Those grey eyes pinned him with unexpected vehemence and Kennan found his next words gone.

"Misery? _Misery? _You dare mention that to me, Battousai? Try living life after life with everyone beneath you, idiots swimming in small pools and bigger idiots in bigger pools. No one who can match you, no one who understands, who _remembers._ And you want to tell me you don't want to remember? You were one of the few hitokiri who could fight on equal terms with me and Okita and you _don't want to remember?_ There was honor in those times! Men who fought and died for their beliefs, no matter the side they were on, and after a few lifetimes wallowing in the defenseless ignorance of the civilian you say you _don't want to remember?"_

Kennan didn't know why it had happened, but the smoker lunged at him, eyes full of murderous intent and Kennan instinctively threw himself off his chair and to the side, scrabbling to his feet as the other man rose from the ruins of the knocked-over chair Kennan had been sitting in. His eyes were sharp and dark; Kennan realized this was the wolf in his dreams of the red-walled city. Instead of shaking, his hands steadied, and he backed up, eyes a stern warning for the smoker to stay back. But the man's lip curled, and he lunged for Kennan again, left hand aiming a punch at his bruised shoulder. Kennan ducked, rolling to his desk and grabbing a pen, holding it before him like a sword. The man smirked at him, and tackled Kennan; they rolled, only stopping, breathing hard, when the smoker felt the point of Kennan's pen pressed against his neck. Still, Kennan wasn't shaking. His face was unreadable, eyes glowing with flecks of gold against the light.

"Stop this, Saitou." It was a curt demand, ripped of all formerly distant politeness, and Saitou's lip curled further in a feral smile. He cupped Kennan's jaw, staring his fill of those flecks of golden ice in Kennan's gaze before he ducked his head, never relinquishing those eyes.

"Never. I'll hunt you down no matter who or what you are." Kennan's eyes narrowed, but his response was interrupted by a forceful kiss from the man pinning him down, hand holding him in place. He made an annoyed sound against Saitou's mouth, pen tip pressing further up into his throat. Saitou chuckled softly, withdrawing only to take a hold of the wrist holding that pen, eyes sharply amused as he dragged it away, leaning back down to claim that mouth once again, grinding his hips against the ones beneath, to keep Kennan in place.

Kennan's breath caught as his body responded to the pressure, and his eyes snapped shut as he was pulled back to reality. Saitou made a disappointed grunt against his mouth, and pulled back enough to chastise him. "Gone already? But I knew I'd find you…" Kennan turned his head to the side as Saitou ducked down, again, but Saitou was undeterred, pressing a kiss and then another to the cheek he'd been given, trailing slowly down to Kennan's jaw and sucking at the underside of it. Kennan shuddered minutely, and Saitou bit at his neck before moving on to another spot. "You could never hide from me for very long." Kennan shut his eyes against that attention, trying to ignore the sense that something very important had just slid into place.

He didn't want to remember. But he _did_.


	5. Insanity knows insanity

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events taking place in "Rurouni Kenshin" by Nobuhiro Watsuki. Please don't sue me. I receive no money from this fanwork, only a writer's creative satisfaction. Also, reviews are always welcomed, read and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: Kaerigake, On the Way Home

Chapter 5: Insanity knows insanity, just as sanity knows sanity.

Word Count: 2,464

[Total Word Count 12,096]

Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin

Character(s): Those souls who were once Himura Kenshin, Saitou Hajime and Sagara Sanosuke. Also, Himura Kenshin and Saitou Hajime.

Warning(s): Character death and reincarnation, bloody memories, nightmares, melancholy, violence

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post date: Sunday, September 14, 2014・平成二十六年九月十四日・日曜日

: : : : : : :

_ The war was ending. The Revolution was nearly over, but there was still fighting going on. Himura Battousai heard his name called, and hurried to the source of it, where his help was most needed. The Shinsengumi were still fighting. He did not want to kill more men, but neither would he forfeit the lives of his comrades to their swords. As Himura Battousai approached, he recognized one man, standing tall at 180 centimeters, his head above the rest. That gaze like a wolf's pierced him, and Himura Battousai wove his way through the battle in the direction of his great rival. Guttural screams and showers of blood opened the path for him, bodies falling in his wake to the deadly swiftness of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu._

_ This would be the third and final time he would fight Saitou Hajime. _

_ At last, they were close enough for real combat, and Himura Battousai rushed in, delivering a Ryuusousen, hoping to press his speed advantage and get in the first hit. Saitou dodged, however, by diving lower than the flurry of hits and bringing his sword up for a stab. Himura Battousai jumped back and delivered a Doryuusen, sending earthen debris flying up at his opponent, granting him a screen. Himura Battousai wasted no time in leaping high into the air above the cloud of dirt for a Ryuutsuisen-Garami, intent on cleaving Saitou's skull in twain with a gravity-strengthened stab. As he came down, he felt his blade connect with another and sink into flesh – not the head, but Saitou's right shoulder. His target had anticipated his attack, moved slightly to avoid a fatal injury, and brought his own sword up to lessen the effect of the blow. Himura Battousai swiped his sword outward as he landed, scratching sharply across the other blade and drawing more blood with the slash, then swung it around in a Ryuukansen; only it was opposite, attacking from the front instead of behind, and aiming for Saitou's unprotected stomach. _

_This would be their decisive battle; only one of them would walk away. Himura Battousai did not fear death, and did not value his own life as he should, but he had his pride as a swordsman who had slain many, and would not go to his death without a fight._

_Again, the sharp clang of sword meeting sword rang out, impossibly loud considering the chaos around them. Saitou smirked at him from behind the crossed blades._

"_You'll have to do better than that, Battousai." He intoned in a feral whisper, yellow eyes gleaming. Himura Battousai kept his expression neutral and leapt back out of range, again. Saitou sank into his familiar left-handed Gatotsu stance, and Himura Battousai watched on, sword held at his side. He had not seen the Gatotsu in a few weeks, and was wary enough to realize Saitou might have improved his variations of the technique in that time._

_Both swordsmen remained still in the midst of the ongoing battle. No one dared approach them; their overpowering, murderous ki being enough to dissuade any onlookers from interfering._

_Himura Battousai tensed as Saitou Hajime's expression changed just before he uttered a battle cry and lunged forward at him, deadly sword aimed for Himura Battousai's forehead. Deciding quickly, Himura Battousai dodged to the left and down, crouching for a split second and bringing his own sword in a sharp cut into Saitou's thighs. He felt the satisfying resistance of flesh for a moment before a hand (Saitou's right!) grabbed his gi and dragged him up, catching him off-guard enough that the hilt of Saitou's sword crashed into his cheek undeterred. Himura Battousai was sent flying to the ground, a nasty-looking bruise on his right cheek as he tried to blink the shock from his eyes. Saitou Hajime was still standing, but the cuts and blood on his thighs gave no doubt that he'd been injured. Himura Battousai lifted his sword, standing up, leaned over slightly as he watched his adversary's movements closely. Saitou settled into another Gatotsu stance, and Himura Battousai's eyes narrowed. He darted forward, snaking under Saitou's outstretched arm before grounding himself and pushing his sword up with both hands in a Ryuushousen, aiming to slice upwards into Saitou's neck. A knee in his stomach made him crumple inwards, Saitou's sword easily coming down to bite into his back. Himura Battousai moved in time to avoid a killing blow, rolling over and back onto his feet, but he could still feel the deep gouge of the sword like fire against his skin, making every stretched movement of his back painful, eyes narrowing as he watched Saitou carefully._

_They were both wounded, now, both having drawn blood. Saitou's eyes were as menacingly amused with him as ever; a very dangerous man, and a top-notch swordsman. A true Wolf of Mibu. It was Himura Battousai who attacked first, this time, sheathing his sword before leaping high into the air and flipping over, falling headfirst towards the ground and unsheathing his sword in an instant, aiming a death strike across Saitou's chest. But he was blocked by his enemy's sword, again – and then Saitou caught him by his gi and lifted him up above his head, the edge of his sword in Himura Battousai's neck._

"_This is your end." He whispered, malevolently intimate. Himura Battousai remained stone-faced, cold and calm in the face of certain death._

"_Yours, as well." Saitou looked down, only now realizing that his foe's swordpoint rested a mere centimeter from his stomach. It would take a flick of a wrist for Himura Battousai to disembowel him. He looked back up, and they stared at each other; a stalemate._

_It took one brave, but foolish, Ishin Shishi grunt interrupting them with a yell. Himura Battousai barked a command to stay back, but it was too late. Saitou threw him aside, and slashed his sword through the unfortunate man, who died with a gurgle and the familiar spatter of blood. Himura Battousai stood, anger in his eyes at yet another comrade slain, but in that moment another Shinsengumi captain rushed in to Saitou's side, shouting something about Okita being overrun. Saitou cast Himura Battousai a glance over his shoulder; promising death, if they should meet again. Himura Battousai watched grimly as his rival left, and then pivoted suddenly as he sensed a hostile ki behind him, easily slaying the inexperienced swordsman with one deadly slash through his torso._

_The battle was not over, but it would be, soon. They would have to settle their score another day._

_This fight would later be called Toba-Fushimi, and it spelled the end of 300 years of Shogun rule._

: : :

Sancho hadn't had a bad life. He'd grown up with a lot of siblings, and being towards the younger end of the spectrum sometimes had to wrestle for his food. It was really no wonder he'd gone into butchery. One of his older brothers was a doctor, or something, and a sister was a lawyer, and good for them, but that kind of life didn't really appeal to Sancho. He felt much better working with his hands, giving the little old ladies and men that came into the store their usual weekly helpings. It was worth it, being able to interact with them, make their lives a little less miserable with some good meat. Kennan had shown up out of nowhere several years ago, and Kama'd immediately taken a protective shine to him. Tani, too, always fussed over Kennan. Was it only Sancho who knew the guy didn't need protecting? Sure, he looked weak, and always had an easy smile ready, but there was something else there… Sancho couldn't put his finger on it. He just _knew_ there was more to Kennan than met the eye.

Fast-forward to today, and Sancho was paying a visit to his friend, a case of beer tucked under one arm. Kennan'd been down in the dumps, recently, and Sancho knew for a fact he had the weekend off, due to Kama's insistence. Sancho'd been later leaving than usual due to the usual rush hour for meat on a Friday after most people got off work, so he missed his friend when Kennan had clocked out. Kennan didn't have many friends besides those who worked in the store – other than an uncle he'd mentioned, vaguely, one time – and Sancho knew that the girls got on his nerves, sometimes, even if he was always patient with them. So, best friend to the rescue it was!

Sancho whistled as he knocked on the door, shrugged at hearing no response and used his key to open it and let himself in, announcing his presence loudly.

"Oi, Kennan! Got some beer and figured you could use some company – " There was a sound of shuffling, and, suspicious, Sancho continued into the living room. He blinked at the scathing-yet-eerily-neutral look aimed in his direction, and then glared when he recognized him. "Oi, you. Sword guy. Where's Kennan?" He wouldn't put it past the guy to have killed him and hid the body, somewhere. Sancho didn't know why, but something about him always got on his nerves.

"I'm here." A voice floating up from the floor made Sancho blink, again, and he stared as Kennan sat up. His clothes were rumpled, and he looked a little haggard. His mouth was swollen, too, and – Sancho blurted out the first thing that came to mind, to distract himself.

"H-H-Hey, am I… interrupting something?" It wasn't like Sancho to be hesitant, but suddenly the ceiling was much more interesting than the oh-so-immodest position in which the other two men happened to be. He heard shuffling, and a small thud, and Kennan's quiet voice, sounding both relieved and irritated.

"_No. _In fact, Saitou was just leaving." Saitou? The man in question spoke before Sancho could wonder where he'd heard that name, before.

"I don't believe I was, actually." Kennan's tone turned testy, and Sancho risked a glance down from the lighting fixture on the ceiling to see – of all things – Kennan glaring at the other man as he stood, fixing his clothes.

"Shall I show you the door?" Wow. That was really… well, assertive, for Kennan. Sancho blinked as – Saitou? Was that the man's name? – smirked in response to the barb.

"No need to be unfriendly, now." If possible, Kennan's glare turned darker, and Sancho flexed his fingers over the bottom of the case of beer still slung under his arm, eyes darting between the two men.

"Kennan, you sure I'm not interrupting – ?"

"_No!"_ Now _that_ almost sounded furious, which was strange enough that Sancho's mouth snapped shut, not bothering to try and hide his shock. Kennan's entire body was tensed as though preparing for a fight, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Saitou stood slowly, by contrast seeming relaxed and uncaring, almost insultingly dismissive of Kennan's anger. He cast a lazy smile towards Kennan, nodding slightly – was it a sword instructor thing, maybe?

"When you cool off, you know where to find me." He stepped past Kennan, brushing by Sancho as he headed for the door. "Excuse me." The politeness was at odds with the vibe Sancho was getting from Saitou, but he didn't bother to watch the man leave, instead watching Kennan carefully. Once the door shut, his friend looked badly startled, almost skittish, and Sancho moved to set the beer on the floor, walking over to him and grabbing Kennan's elbow gently. He jerked at the touch, but Sancho firmly sat down on his couch, dragging his friend to sit beside him, his voice flat.

"What was that. You look like hell. Am I going to need to beat that guy up?" A huffed, depreciative laugh was all he got at first, before Kennan shook his head.

"He's a kendo instructor, Sancho. I don't think it'd be evenly matched." Sancho scoffed at him.

"Oh, please. I'd go easy on him." Kennan at last looked up at him, mildly exasperated, and Sancho grinned at him. "C'mon. Seriously, what's eating you? You look like you've seen a ghost." Kennan's eyes dropped to his lap, and his hands slowly migrated towards each other, latching around his wrists. Sancho let go of his elbow.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Kennan eventually sighed, shaking his head. "Or you'd think I'm insane." Sancho snorted at him, and shoved his shoulder.

"Hey, man, where's the trust? I'm not your best friend for nothing, you know. As long as you're not planning to break the law, I don't think I'm duty-bound to report anything you tell me. So what's up?" Kennan was silent for a long time – long enough that Sancho got restless with the silence, and reached down for two beers. He opened them both, and set one on the coffee table in front of Kennan. Predictably, it went ignored. Still – watching the table, now, to take the pressure off Kennan – Sancho sipped at his as he waited for his friend to gather his nerve, or his thoughts, or… whatever-it-was that was making him so hesitant to open up.

Finally, there was a soft sigh from beside him, and Sancho's ears perked up. Kennan's voice was low.

"Did you ever have… dreams, Sancho?" It was an odd question, and Sancho frowned.

"Of course I have. Who doesn't dream?" It felt like Kennan was leading up to something, almost.

"No, I mean… Did you ever have dreams where you… weren't you?" Sancho hesitated to respond, at this, but Kennan went on, regardless. "Where you're somewhere else, and you're surrounded by people you don't know but who are familiar, and you're doing things you would never do but you can't stop doing them because that's who you are in this dream and – "

"Are you talking about past lives, Kennan?" Sancho interrupted him suddenly, glancing over at his friend. He felt unsettled at the topic, and yet – Kennan gave him a watery smile.

"It sounds quite strange, doesn't it?" Sancho considered him, a moment. He weighed his response.

"… Do _you_ have those kinds of dreams, Kennan?" Sancho ended up asking. Kennan nodded, eyes dropping again to his lap.

"I do." The air was thick, and Sancho just knew Kennan thought Sancho thought he was insane. Sancho smiled a little, almost rueful.

"The kind of dreams where Kama runs some school for swordsmanship, and Tani's a doctor, and Jinn's some kid who follows you around everywhere? And you're a really good fighter with a weird sword?" Sancho's voice was uncharacteristically quiet; serious, even. Despite this, Kennan started, blinking up at him with wide eyes. Sancho's rueful smile grew less brazen, more sad.

"Do you… ?"

"Yeah. I have them, too."


	6. Wander too far

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events taking place in "Rurouni Kenshin" by Nobuhiro Watsuki. Please don't sue me. I receive no money from this fanwork, only a writer's creative satisfaction. Also, reviews are always welcomed, read and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: Kaerigake, On the Way Home

Chapter 6: Wander too far down memory lane…

Word Count: 2,700

[Total Word Count: 14,796]

Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin

Character(s): Himura Kenshin, Sekihara Tae, Sanjou Tsubame and Sagara Sanosuke.

Warning(s): Bloody memories, melancholy, violence, slight canon-storyline AU

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post date: Sunday, September 14, 2014・平成二十六年九月十四日・日曜日

: : : : : : :

_ Ten years since Toba-Fushimi. Ten years since Tomoe's murder._

_ Himura Battousai – no, he didn't go by that name, anymore. Himura Kenshin, the name his Shisho had given him, that was who he was, now. Shakku-san had given him a sakabatou – a reverse-blade sword – after the battle at Toba-Fushimi, when Kenshin had told him he wanted to find a path to protect others that avoided killing. The first few days had been hard. Himura Battousai had never lusted for the blood of men, and Himura Kenshin had vowed to never take another life. Still, habits engrained over five years drenched in the blood of Kyoto – and before that, in learning the Hiten Mitsurugi Style – were startling when disrupted. The first time he drew his sword after becoming a rurouni, an aimless wanderer, Kenshin felt startled when blood didn't spray. It was a relief, to some extent, seeing his foe laid out on the ground before him, still breathing – only a common thief. After a moment, Kenshin became aware of the exposed nature of the alley, being just off the main street. Hastily, he grabbed the bag of money and read the name on it. Returning it with the quiet swiftness one can only manage with years of practice, Kenshin left town. He was haunted by a strange feeling of leaving a job undone, and had to resist the urge to go back and finish the thief._

_ It was something he and the Shinsengumi had always agreed upon; Aku, Soku, Zan – Swift Death to Evil. The Battousai inside of Kenshin loathed leaving such an evil man alive, but the Kenshin inside of Battousai was relieved at not having taken another life; at being able to use his sword as it should have always been used, to protect others and give mercy. Perhaps the thief would reform, having received kindness in an unkind world. His Shisho had no qualms about killing, but then Hiko had always done so sparingly, only when needed. His Master hadn't massacred thousands in cold, relentless efficiency the way Himura Battousai had. _

_With this, Kenshin had hope that he could one day atone for all the lives he had taken to make way for the peace of the Meiji Era._

_ With this, Battousai had the first stirrings of discontent; at being denied the base center of his very existence. Despite initially being a gentle soul, the years had hardened him, and it would take more than one spared thief to overturn the instilled murderous nature it had absorbed._

_ But Kenshin would try._

_ He entered Edo – no, wait, it was Tokyo, now – in the middle of the day, taking in the new capital. It had been ten years since he had slain a man. It wasn't that there had been a lack of close calls; of course there had. Especially in the early days, before the ban on swords had come into effect, his brazenly worn sword caused him no end of challenges. Each and every time Kenshin had to resist ending the fight the way he always had. It would be so easy to turn the blade on his sword, and strike that killing blow. He learned, too, that his favorites – the Battou-Jutsu techniques – required more power than with a regular sword, due to friction in the sheath. It was to be expected of a sakabatou, however, and after the first time he missed a foe by a few centimeters due to that friction, he compensated by working to hone his drawing, to regain the same level of speed and power a regular sword gave his strikes, naturally._

_: : :_

_ He had offered his assistance to an elderly couple who seemed to be struggling with their groceries, and they had insisted on treating him to a Western-style meal called "hot pot" at a local establishment called the Akabeko. There were a few drunk men shouting ideas about democracy in one booth, and the elderly couple tutted about them and apologized. They tried to enjoy their meal, but halfway through it Kenshin stiffened as his sixth sense kicked in, sensing a projectile approaching from behind. He dodged just in time, the ceramic bowl shattering harmlessly on the wall in front of him. The elderly couple – each seated on one side of him – stared at the ruined tableware in surprise._

_ A soft voice floated up from his side, and Kenshin looked down to see a young girl in the Akabeko's uniform. Her hair was in a bowl-cut, and she was apologizing for the disturbance, and asking if everyone was all right. Kenshin smiled slightly down at her, and caught from the corner of his eye the host – Tae-dono, if memory served – trying to calm down the drunken democratic supporters. He tensed, half out of his seat, as they shoved her aside, but a tall man in odd dress emerged from another booth and caught her before she fell. The elderly woman beside Kenshin commented that he was a no-goodnick, always fighting and would someday come to a bad end, just like that brazen character on his back. Kenshin watched as the democratic supporters challenged him to a fight. Fearing it would get out of hand, and not wishing for any of the men to die while he could have prevented it, Kenshin excused himself with polite gratitude from his dinner companions, and quietly followed the posturing men outside. _

_A crowd gathered quickly in the street as the three democratic supporters faced off with the taller man who had so chivalrously prevented Tae-san from falling. He gave his name, but Kenshin was too busy scanning the supporters for any weapons to catch it. The stiff angle of a concealed blade on one of them made him narrow his eyes at the duplicity, but another was already charging the tall man with a fist outstretched – no, a hidden dagger! But the tall man didn't flinch, and the charging man, inexplicably, howled in pain, his arm bending at a strange angle. Kenshin stared in surprise, and blinked when the tall man merely flicked his opponent's head, sending him to the ground. The soft scuff of a sword inching out of its sheath caught his experienced ears, however, and Kenshin moved quickly to press the hilt of his sword into the back of the democratic supporter intent on drawing his. Thankfully, after a few words of caution – and the sound of police whistles approaching – the group of three decided to retreat without making a bigger scene._

_Kenshin watched as the tall man walked away, the 'evil' on his back unmistakably clear and pristine. What could have made him wear such a thing so proudly? He seemed an honorable man – he hadn't tried to kill his opponents, and even complained at how weak they were. Kenshin smiled to himself as he thought how this man might have fared in the Bakamatsu. Clearly, he had some innate talent, and if it had been molded in the fires of Kyoto, he might truly have become a great warrior. But he was too young – he couldn't be older than twenty – to have fought in those wars, surely. One sad truth of the Meiji Era was that men of war could no longer find work which suited their talents. Kenshin did not mind this, of course. He was glad for the peace, for women to talk and children to play in the streets without fear. Even before Tomoe, he had never enjoyed killing. He had never felt anything at all about it, actually, and had said as much to Iizuka._

_Lost in his thoughts, Kenshin wasn't fully aware of the present situation until a policeman grabbed his elbow, accusing him loudly of not obeying the ban on swords. Kenshin's eyes went wide, and he tried to slip away, but soon what seemed to be an entire platoon was chasing him. Eventually, they cornered him, surrounding him on all sides, and he sighed._

"_You are certainly very persistent – this one has no choice but to let you take it in."_

_And so, he found himself sitting in a jail cell._

_: : :_

_ Really, it was not too horrible a place to be. Granted, Kenshin missed the sunlight and walking where he pleased, but he knew this would be temporary. He had allowed himself to be captured a few times over the past decade, and had no reason to believe this would be any different. He answered the police's questions honestly, giving his name and allowing them to do what they must. Kenshin planned on slipping away one night and reclaiming his sakabatou – naturally, they had taken it from him, but despite his insistence that it couldn't kill anyone, they were still concerned with the blade-side, and had to check their information. _

_ That night, he dreamt of the Wolves of Mibu hunting him in the streets of Kyoto. It was hellish, flames everywhere, and the points of all swords aimed at him. Kenshin cut his way through them, of course, spilling blood and feeling the rough resistance as his blade cut through cloth and flesh, muscle and bone. And, though it were his own hands, Kenshin couldn't stop it. No matter how much he hated seeing blood spill from his blade, these nightmares were borne of memories and could not be dismissed with simple rationalizing. _

_ He woke abruptly to the sound of a voice in the cell beside him._

_ "Sounds like you've got some pretty rough dreams, there." It was a gruff voice, but not without that edge of compassion found in anyone who could relate to such nightmares. Feeling bereft without his sakabatou to hold as he slept, Kenshin merely allowed himself a soft 'yes'. His neighboring felon banged on the wall between them, in sympathy. "I hear ya. You're the swordsman they brought in, right? You any good?" Kenshin closed his eyes._

_ "This one does not enjoy fighting." He heard a scoff next to him._

_ "That must be a lie, if you're walking around with a sword on your hip. That's just asking for trouble, these days. What, can't let go of the old times?" Tomoe's death flashed in his memory, and Kenshin bowed his head, shadows obscuring his eyes even though his neighbor couldn't see them, anyway._

_ "Something like that." As if sensing the sobering atmosphere, the other felon fell quiet._

_ The rest of the night was spent in silence._

_: : :_

_ In the morning, Kenshin slipped quietly out of his jail cell when they brought him breakfast, knocked out the guards, and escaped out through the window, using the rooftops. The man he'd talked to the previous night was still asleep in his cell. The only thing that struck Kenshin about him was the man's back – he wore a white jacket, with the character for 'evil' brazenly showing. But it was no concern of his, and Kenshin left him where he lay. Kenshin had no doubt that once someone in the government who had known him during the Bakumatsu heard his name, they would try to recruit him for a position. He had no interest in doing something that would not directly help the people around him – it was the same as when he had been an assassin, in a sense. Kenshin was not one to stand idly by and let others suffer if he could prevent it, and, further he had no desire to be put above the people who had merely tried to survive the Bakumatsu. He, as an assassin, had no right to think himself better. He had killed hundreds of men in the five years he had served under Katsura-san. So many of the people now living peaceful lives had done nothing to deserve the suffering they had gone through. Why should he, a bringer of bloody rain and a ruiner of happiness, deserve anything more than atonement for what he had done?_

_ His comrades wouldn't understand his reasoning. They would excuse his crimes, say it was for the good of the Revolution that he had killed those men, and try and protect him from any who would accuse him otherwise. Kenshin appreciated their sentiments, but he could not agree with them. He had killed, he must atone. The Revolution was over, and Kenshin would only raise his sword in order to contribute to or maintain the current peace. And if he never stayed in one town for too long, maybe his past would never catch up with him. _

_People hadn't seen much of Hitokiri Battousai, and no one had drawn him or taken his picture with a Western camera. He had been in the shadows during the entire Bakumatsu, and although rumors of his appearance were spread far and wide, only about half were correct. Some said he had a cross-shaped scar, but it varied where, some said his eyes burned like fire, some said it was his hair, and others insisted he was ten feet tall, to be so strong. Usually only after seeing his swordsmanship did people start to suspect he was no mere swordsman, but that couldn't be helped. Kenshin always left any town quickly after drawing his sword, no matter the reason, so there wouldn't be a chance for anyone who had witnessed the fight to worry over a skilled samurai in this day and age. If he left town, they wouldn't forget about him, but they wouldn't worry about him coming back._

_It was best like this, but still. Tomoe had shown him he didn't have to be alone in his life, and despite the tragedy that had occurred, Kenshin still missed that quiet companionship. His Master was not one given to soft words and affection, and they were not equals. If there was anyone Kenshin could call a parent, it would be him, but Hiko would kill him if Kenshin asked to stay with him. He had run off from his lessons fifteen years ago, and even if he had not, Hiko did not have the patience to tolerate his stupid apprentice's flights of idealism. And yet, even though he wanted this, Kenshin had avoided getting too close to anyone since Tomoe. Experience had taught him that those he might have cared for were better kept at a distance than forced to deal with the too-often-deadly baggage of Kenshin's history._

_As an assassin, he had lived alone, killed alone, and slept alone. He only ate with other men because Iizuka had insisted on dragging him down to the meal room, instead of quietly having his meals brought up to his room. He had been an assassin, and one of his greatest weapons was his unknown identity. Hitokiri Battousai, yes, perhaps even Himura Battousai to trusted Ishin Shishi, but never Himura Kenshin. No. The last was who he was, now, and Kenshin wasn't intent on changing it. He enjoyed how he was clearing his conscience, and even though the bloodstains on his hands would never go away, he still wanted to try and make amends for what he had done. Live by the sword, die by the sword. It was another thing the Hitokiri had shared with the Shinsengumi, and Kenshin could only imagine what Okita and Saitou would think of him, now. But they were both long dead._

_He was one of the few remaining samurai from the Bakumatsu who still held a sword, much less still lived. But Kenshin couldn't rue this fact. It was better that the old ways die out, to make way for the new. He would never take an apprentice, would never pass on the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu. It was better for the world that the killer's sword die out, to be replaced by a wooden one that changed kenjutsu's true nature. Kenshin could never take up a wooden sword; he was too tainted to wield it correctly. There was no changing the true nature of the hitokiri that lurked at the bottom of his heart. Still, there were those who learned swordsmanship in this day and age, who could change the world for the better with their wooden swords. Kenshin hoped fervently that these future swordsmen would do so._


	7. Lost in the past

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events taking place in "Rurouni Kenshin" by Nobuhiro Watsuki. Please don't sue me. I receive no money from this fanwork, only a writer's creative satisfaction. Also, reviews are always welcomed, read and cherished, but never necessary.

Title: Kaerigake, On the Way Home

Chapter 7: …and you will find yourself lost in the past…

Word Count: 2,203

[Total Word Count: 16,999]

Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin

Character(s): Himura Kenshin, Kamiya Kaoru, Saitou Hajime, others mentioned.

Warning(s): Bloody memories, melancholy, violence, mention of same-sex relations, slight canon-storyline AU

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)

Post date: Saturday, October 4, 2014・平成二十六年九月四日・土曜日

: : : : : : :

_ It was midday by the time Kenshin strode out of Tokyo, hands folded in the front of his gi as he walked, when he came upon a scuffle on the side of the road. There was a woman, dressed quite masculine in a white gi and navy hakama, her hair up in a long, dark ponytail, bandages around her chest. She had what looked to be a bokken propped over her shoulder in its narrow bag, giving for all the world the impression of a kendo instructor. Kenshin blinked as she let her drawstring bag fall to the ground behind her, pulling her bokken out and facing off against the bandits surrounding her. She seemed to know how to fight, and – not certain if he would be needed or not – Kenshin opted to duck behind a tree and watch the fight. If he had to intervene, better he have the element of surprise. The road was oddly deserted for this time of day, and he wondered grimly if that had been these bandits' doing._

_ The loud thuds of a bokken connecting to a body drew his attention from his thoughts, and Kenshin blinked as he saw the bandits laid out on the ground, the woman posed in a final stance, breathing out slowly before straightening._

_ "Guys like you should know better than to mess with me! You can't defeat the Assistant Master of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryuu that easily!" She scoffed at them, and went to gather her things. Kenshin hid a smile as he ducked out from behind his tree, walking towards her – which was the direction in which he had initially been traveling. He'd never heard of the Kamiya Kasshin Ryuu, but it must serve her well. She heard the scuff of his sandals on the path, and sprang back, holding up her bokken defensively. Kenshin smiled disarmingly at her._

_ "That was quite a battle. You are very good at swordsmanship." The suspicious look in her eyes wavered, until she caught sight of his sword. Then she straightened, outright frowning at him._

_ "And who are you? Carrying a sword in this day and age is illegal." Kenshin upped the harmlessness of his smile, another notch._

_ "This one is only a rurouni. I have no intention of fighting you, Miss." She scoffed at him, still keeping a wary eye out even as she lowered her bokken from an attack stance._

_ "If you don't want to fight, why carry a sword? Thugs like these – " She kicked at one of the men she had beaten, to indicate him, before looking back up at Kenshin. " – don't care if you're armed or unarmed, but there are some men out there who'll fight just for the sake of it." Kenshin blinked at her._

_ "Are you thinking of someone in particular, Miss?" She flushed and yelled at him._

_ "N-N-No! Are you crazy? A guy like that is nothing but trouble!"_

_ "Oro?" Kenshin hastily got out of her way as she stomped past him. He looked down at the bandits, for a moment, then smiled fondly after her retreating figure, down the road. No, the future of swordsmanship was in no trouble at all, with people like her around. What a courageous girl. Shaking his head, gently, Kenshin silently wished her the best before turning and continuing to make his way out of the city, alone._

_: : :_

_ Unfortunately, hours later, he had only just veered off the wider path for one snaking through the trees, when Kenshin heard a carriage behind him. He turned, squinting into the gloom of the twilight, and watched as it approached. He was already well off the road, dewy grass soaking the bottoms of his hakama. The carriage slowed as it neared him, however, pulling up to a stop and Kenshin blinked up at it as the window opened. A harried-looking man peered out at him._

_ "Sir! Have you seen someone passing along, carrying a sword? He's escaped from Tokyo's jail and is rumored to be the legendary Battousai – he's extremely dangerous!"_

_ Glad for the darkness, which obscured the sword at his hip against the backdrop of the forest, Kenshin silently thanked himself for keeping his left side facing the trees as he watched the carriage approach. He smiled up at the haggard man, all unguarded innocence._

_ "This one is sad to report no, sir." Certainly, Kenshin hadn't seen anyone __**else **__passing along with a sword, now had he? He bowed his head and turned to leave (still hiding his sword against the shadows), but a smug voice rang out from the carriage behind him._

_ "So the rumors are true." Kenshin paused, glancing over his shoulder, eyes narrowing as Hajime Saitou's smirking face appeared from behind the curtain on the other window of the carriage. "You __**are **__here. Or, rather, were. And we nearly lost you." He tutted, dismissively requesting for the man in the other window to open the door. "Won't you join us, Battousai? There is much to discuss."_

_ The carriage door opened, but Kenshin didn't move. His eyes were still narrowed on Saitou to show he was serious, even if his firm tone didn't already give it away._

_ "This one has no intention of joining anyone's side. This is an age of peace." He stated calmly enough, even if his manslayer-self was slightly annoyed at Saitou's arrogance. "This one is but a rurouni, now." Saitou's smirk widened._

_ "Yes, I can see that, and will address that ridiculousness at a later time. But you have no interest in 'keeping the peace', Battousai?" Saitou was taunting him. Of course he – "There is a man running around claiming to be you." Was there? Well, that rankled, but if he was doing no harm… "He's killed twenty of my men in three days, and my sources say he's aiming to illegally take over a struggling dojo in town." Kenshin frowned up at him._

_ "What dojo?" Saitou watched him like his next words would seal his compliance, still smug._

_ "Kamiya Kasshin; the sword that protects life. The Master passed away in the Boshin War, and his child runs the dojo as Assistant Master." The name was vaguely familiar from somewhere, but Kenshin didn't recognize it. Perhaps seeing Kenshin about to protest that it really was a case more for the police than a vigilante such as himself, Saitou pressed on. "His__** female**__ child. Seventeen, and with only three students against the fake Battousai's swarm of men."_

_ Kenshin froze. Surely – surely it couldn't be the same girl he'd run into earlier, on the road? She was strong, but if numbers overwhelmed her…_

_ "I wouldn't be surprised if those three students have quit, now, due to pressure from their parents." Saitou intoned this lowly and Kenshin glared up at him for the manipulation._

_ "Why would they?" Saitou grinned ferally down at him._

_ "The fake's been professing he's of the Kamiya Kasshin school. You and I both know that's a lie, but the parents of that school's students don't. I wouldn't expect them to want their children learning the style of a murderer. It's only a matter of time before they're pressured into quitting, and then the little girl will be all alone against a mob of usurpers who want her dojo only for the value of the land."_

_ Kenshin turned back towards Tokyo, ready to run, but Saitou stopped him short._

_ "We'll travel faster by carriage, idiot. Besides, you don't know where the school is. Get in."_

_: : :_

_ And so, Kenshin saved Kamiya Kaoru and her dojo. She invited him to stay, saying she didn't care about his past. In short order, Myoujin Yahiko, Sagara Sanosuke and Takani Megumi gathered around them. Saitou kept in contact, having been recently stationed in Tokyo – Kenshin knew it was to keep an eye on him, however. For all their history as rivals, they didn't hate one another. Quite the contrary, if Saitou's attempts to draw him in meant anything. And Kenshin indulged him, now and then. But then there was the day where Saitou made himself publically known to Kenshin, threatening his new gaggle of admirers and seriously injuring Sano in the process. Kenshin tried to figure out why, but in the end could only wait for Saitou to reappear. Kenshin didn't want a deathmatch, but he wasn't sure he could beat Saitou without having the intent to kill._

_ Their battle in the Kamiya dojo proved this. Kenshin reverted to his manslayer-self, and not even Kaoru-dono's voice could bring him back. After speaking with Okubou, Kenshin thought over his answer for a week. He ignored any attempts by Saitou to approach him. _

_On May 14, 1868, he left Tokyo. Kaoru was sobbing his name behind him as he left, but Kenshin's steps didn't falter. At least, this time, the woman he loved was not dead as he left her behind. Kaoru was strong, she had Yahiko and the others, she would bounce back. Kenshin didn't know what he would do when he met Shishio Makoto, but he would never return to Tokyo again. If he should revert to Battousai, again, and lose himself in the midst of the duel, he could never bring himself to face the people who had put so much faith in his oath to never kill again. Kenshin wasn't sure that he would be able to keep mind of himself while in the midst of battle – Saitou's fight with him had shown him that. He wouldn't subject his friends to seeing him like that, again. Kenshin knew it had scared them._

_Oddly, Saitou showed up at Senkaku's village. Kenshin hadn't spoken to him since Tokyo, when Saitou had both offered him a free trip to Kyoto and tried to bait him into drawing his sword, again. With Misao and Eiji in the midst of it all, there wasn't much room for real conversation. Still, Kenshin didn't doubt Saitou was watching him for an opportunity – not that there ever was one. Misao stuck to him and Kenshin was relieved that her presence seemed to entice Saitou to keep his distance._

_Kenshin had given up Kaoru; he knew he would never see her, again. His heart ached for the pain he would cause her, but he knew it to be for the best. Saitou was not someone Kenshin had to protect; the overtones of their contact in Tokyo before the dojo fight also made Saitou's intentions absolutely clear. But then, there was also the factor of Saitou's wife, Tokio. Kenshin had not known of her role, in all this, and could not help but bitterly resign himself to never indulging in Saitou's advances, again. How like Saitou, to not tell him everything. How unlike Saitou, however, to be unfaithful to his own wife. But then, perhaps she knew? Perhaps she had even given permission for such dalliances? _

_Kenshin shook his head at his own thoughts. Even knowing he could never be any good to anyone unless he was completely alone – even knowing that, he still tried to reach out for companionship. Saitou wanted a good deal more than that, yes, but it wasn't as though Kenshin really minded… If he had, their relationship would have never become what it had been, to start with. Not that it was much more than sex, of course. Kenshin held no romantic delusions about Saitou's feelings towards him; lust, a good lay, a better rival, a man who shared their history of bloodshed. They understood one another in unspoken ways, due to these things. And then, there were things Saitou would never understand; Kenshin's oath not to kill, his insistence on protecting without taking life, his cheerful rurouni mask to hide the killer lurking just a breath away from the edge of the sakabatou. Saitou wore his true face at all times; at least, every time Kenshin had seen him. Saitou's was a blazing sword of absolute truth; unflinching, uncompromising, overwhelming, merciless and efficient. Kenshin's sword was soft, tempered as to not cause more harm than necessary, only hard enough when the situation called for it. His hitokiri sword had been sharpened with Tenchuu; measured force, instant death, and passive neutrality over the lives it took – just like Heaven's Judgment was meant to be._

_But what good did these musings do him? The battle with Shishio might very well end in Kenshin's death. He couldn't die without stopping Shishio, though. Even if it cost Kenshin his life, he would stop Shishio. Maybe, if he found Hiko once he returned to Kyoto, Kenshin could go to him and beg to be taught the ougi of the Hiten Mitsurugi Style. He had never completed his training, all those years ago. It had occurred to him, now and then, but his opponents over the past fifteen years had never been strong enough to require anything beyond his usual techniques. To beat Shishio Makoto, Battousai's successor, however… And with Kenshin's oath not to kill, he would need more power. Hiko could give him that power, he was sure of it, could give him something more that would spell Shishio's certain defeat._

_But whether his Master would do so or not, remained to be seen._


End file.
